Christian Pipe Smokers

Post about everything from carrying a handkerchief to manly skills (sharpening a pocket knife, etc.) to product reviews of items that may have slipped under our radar (e.g. - Grandpa's Pine Tar soap). No threads on anything "new" unless it harkens to old-fashioned sensibilities and ideals.

I think I’ve told this story before. My pathethic search skills says i haven’t. I don’t trust that. Any difference between then and now is because jester is holding out on visa payment info to cover the damn shipping. OK?

One day after school I sliced my finger pretty good. Mom was up at Peggy Helfly’s place on 16th. We were on 10th. I called. Busy. I panicked. I ran out the front door of the coup with bleeding appendage clinched in a paper towel and my other hand.

We lived next door to a real hippy. That guy was righteous. There is a follow up turtle story here. But, I knew not to go there with injury.

Across the street was a neighbor we weren’t friendly with but, I knew she’d do the right thing. I bolt over, ring bell. No one home. OK. Look around and the only real option is a very scary house on the street. Steven King material. But my finger was not going to stop bleeding. So over I went.

Not exactly bolting. More like each step forced to overcome my fear of going to that front door. I eventually made it and knocked.

A young adult female answered. Brown hair and eyes. I was ten and I knew right then I was heterosexual for life.

She led me to a human version of Jabba the Hutt. More moo oo-moo oo childhood trauma. Miss beautiful went to get her nurses kit.

So, I was there with Jabba the Hutt.

Alone.

She took up the couch. I kneeled on the floor and waited as Jabba the Hutt tried to chit chat to calm me. She smelled odd.

She then lunged her upper girth in my direction and latched on to both my wrists. She pull back and held fast. I stumbled forward, already on my knees I was face down into smothering blubber that was rushing one way then another like drowning tides of fat.

I was able to recover slightly and pulled back hard as I gasped for life giving air, She countered to keep her hands securely clinched on my wrists but at least I was no longer inhaling beef bouillon cube waft through moo oo-moo oo any more.

Then it got scary.

She pulls my writs inward and looks up at the ceiling and starts to pray for me. Loudly. Oddly.

Where is the nurses kit for crying out loud? The giagantic form is killing me already. Sliced finger? Who cares? I gotta get out of here.

After Jabba the Hutt finishes her benidiction there was a glorifying long pause of silence. She smiled and aske me if I believed in Jesus.

I said that we’re Jehovah’s Witnesses.

It was like krytonite to Superman.

She released my wrists and withdrew with a distrustful look in her eye.

The hippy lived the in lot just to the right as facing front doors. His building was deeply set to the rear. His long front yard stretched to the street and connected to our side lot. It was a flat mowed stretch of land with obvious boundaries. The number of Super Bowls games played there are numerous. But that's not what this is about. Excuse me, I am in the need of Pegasus. I'll edit in a bit.

Ok. Eli was an older-than-middle-age single man that lived in a small shack on an otherwise vacant lot in our small Texas town. He owned no vehicle, and walked everywhere he went, with a sort-of sideways gait and a noticeable limp. All of the kids knew Eli, and he knew us. To our face he would simply say "Hun", but referring to someone otherwise, he used our last names only.
"You want a Tab, Hun?", he would ask. He was diabetic and could only drink diet drinks. "Sure", I would reply. He'd step inside and return with a Pepsi. "That's not a Tab, Eli, it's a Pepsi.". "Well it's a Tab to me, Hun", he'd say. "It was Joe Johnson that killed your baby chickens, Eli.".
"No, no, the little Mercer boy did it.".
"Where did all of those baby chickens come from, Eli?".
"The Lord, he provides chickens, Hun. Always does.".
"What do you do with chickens, Eli?".
"I just feed them Tab, hun, and they grow and then they die, just like I'm doing".

I grew up, and suddenly was a teen, and seldom ever saw Eli any more. Then one day I was driving my old 1960 Brookwood station wagon in town and noticed an old guy walking off the side of the road, almost in the ditch. A half sideways walk with a limp at a quick pace, I knew it had to be old Eli. I slowed down and pulled over. "Hey Eli, how you doin? How bout a ride?". The old man stared back at me, didn't say a word, and kept walking. "Eli?", I said. "It's me, the little Jackson boy". Eli moved further from the road, continued his quick pace in the ditch now, and glanced back at me with a wild look. I pulled back onto the road and drove away, and that was the last time I ever saw Eli.

The hippy lived the in lot just to the right as facing front doors. His building was deeply set to the rear. His long front yard stretched to the street and connected to our side lot. It was a flat mowed stretch of land with obvious boundaries. The number of Super Bowls games played there are numerous. But that's not what this is about. Excuse me, I am in the need of Pegasus. I'll edit in a bit.

I loaded some Pegasus. Couldn't keep it lit. Work email buzz-buzz. Need to print something. Why can't I keep this lit?

Spending time with my cousin who is 2 years my senior this coming weekend.

When we were kids, my brother and I spent many days and nights at his house. As was just the way things went, kid productions for adults was encouraged and always well received.

5 kids 10yo and under. We decided to do a dramatic reenactment of the story of Sampson taking down that temple to Dagon while being blind, imprisoned, and forced to work like Arnold in that muscle sword movie thing.

We built a platform from ply board and 2x4s and rigged it to lean on the fireplace mantle. We took every pillow we could find and piled it on top of the plyboard. My brother, the oldest, was Sampson. I was the narrator. My Aunt and Uncle had artsy fartsy crap everywhere. I grabbed some head statue and presented it as Dagon.

On queue my brother toppled the pillars and the pillow avalanche killed him. All to great hoops of laughter from all adults present.

I think I’ve told this story before. My pathethic search skills says i haven’t. I don’t trust that. Any difference between then and now is because jester is holding out on visa payment info to cover the damn shipping. OK?

One day after school I sliced my finger pretty good. Mom was up at Peggy Helfly’s place on 16th. We were on 10th. I called. Busy. I panicked. I ran out the front door of the coup with bleeding appendage clinched in a paper towel and my other hand.

We lived next door to a real hippy. That guy was righteous. There is a follow up turtle story here. But, I knew not to go there with injury.

Across the street was a neighbor we weren’t friendly with but, I knew she’d do the right thing. I bolt over, ring bell. No one home. OK. Look around and the only real option is a very scary house on the street. Steven King material. But my finger was not going to stop bleeding. So over I went.

Not exactly bolting. More like each step forced to overcome my fear of going to that front door. I eventually made it and knocked.

A young adult female answered. Brown hair and eyes. I was ten and I knew right then I was heterosexual for life.

She led me to a human version of Jabba the Hutt. More moo oo-moo oo childhood trauma. Miss beautiful went to get her nurses kit.

So, I was there with Jabba the Hutt.

Alone.

She took up the couch. I kneeled on the floor and waited as Jabba the Hutt tried to chit chat to calm me. She smelled odd.

She then lunged her upper girth in my direction and latched on to both my wrists. She pull back and held fast. I stumbled forward, already on my knees I was face down into smothering blubber that was rushing one way then another like drowning tides of fat.

I was able to recover slightly and pulled back hard as I gasped for life giving air, She countered to keep her hands securely clinched on my wrists but at least I was no longer inhaling beef bouillon cube waft through moo oo-moo oo any more.

Then it got scary.

She pulls my writs inward and looks up at the ceiling and starts to pray for me. Loudly. Oddly.

Where is the nurses kit for crying out loud? The giagantic form is killing me already. Sliced finger? Who cares? I gotta get out of here.

After Jabba the Hutt finishes her benidiction there was a glorifying long pause of silence. She smiled and aske me if I believed in Jesus.

I said that we’re Jehovah’s Witnesses.

It was like krytonite to Superman.

She released my wrists and withdrew with a distrustful look in her eye.

Then Miss beautiful came back in. And got a hold of my mom.

7 Stitches, left index.

This really motivates an update to your listing on AmericanMen4sale.com. I'm gonna be soused in the bids and lusty commentary. I noticed you look pretty trim. I gotta update the pic. What disease would you prefer to have survived? Some of the bidders might actually be Aussie men looking for MOBs.

You're out of the woods
You're out of the dark
You're out of the night
Step into the sun
Step into the light

When I was 9, I spent a lot of time at my cousin's. we were a year apart in age with him being older. One Saturday my uncle and my step dad and one of their friends got up early and went fly fishing. My cousin and I weren't welcome on the "Man's" fishing trips...

Well we decided that we would go fishing without them. But there were not any lakes or streams in West Denver within our "allowed roaming area", so we rigged up our spinning rods and reels with some lug nuts that we had found in the neighbors driveway and we went to the nearest big parking lot we could find that was within the "allowed roaming area" and began casting. It was Saturday so no cars in the lot of this office building and we began to see who could cast the farthest... Yup a lug nut when through a window of the office building.

What we didn't know was that there was one of Denver's Finest in his patrol car in an alley across the street watching us... He drove over and told us that he had witnessed it and knew it was an accident, but we would have to pay for the window. He had dispatch call the manager of the property and he came down and called the owner of the building and told him what happened. Apparently the guy was a big time fisherman and said that two city boys trying to get better at their casting was OK with him and he didn't want charges and he would have the window fixed.

The cop let us sweat it out for a little while and then said he would let it slide like the building owner wanted as long as we promised to go home and tell our parents. He gave us our rods back and then he left...we decided on the walk home that we were never going to tell our parents. As far as I know he never did and I never have...as a matter of fact this is the first time I have ever spoken of it to anyone but my cousin.

When I was 9, I spent a lot of time at my cousin's. we were a year apart in age with him being older. One Saturday my uncle and my step dad and one of their friends got up early and went fly fishing. My cousin and I weren't welcome on the "Man's" fishing trips...

Well we decided that we would go fishing without them. But there were not any lakes or streams in West Denver within our "allowed roaming area", so we rigged up our spinning rods and reels with some lug nuts that we had found in the neighbors driveway and we went to the nearest big parking lot we could find that was within the "allowed roaming area" and began casting. It was Saturday so no cars in the lot of this office building and we began to see who could cast the farthest... Yup a lug nut when through a window of the office building.

What we didn't know was that there was one of Denver's Finest in his patrol car in an alley across the street watching us... He drove over and told us that he had witnessed it and knew it was an accident, but we would have to pay for the window. He had dispatch call the manager of the property and he came down and called the owner of the building and told him what happened. Apparently the guy was a big time fisherman and said that two city boys trying to get better at their casting was OK with him and he didn't want charges and he would have the window fixed.

The cop let us sweat it out for a little while and then said he would let it slide like the building owner wanted as long as we promised to go home and tell our parents. He gave us our rods back and then he left...we decided on the walk home that we were never going to tell our parents. As far as I know he never did and I never have...as a matter of fact this is the first time I have ever spoken of it to anyone but my cousin.

Stupid Stuff I Hid From My Parents would make a good thread of its own.

When I was 9, I spent a lot of time at my cousin's. we were a year apart in age with him being older. One Saturday my uncle and my step dad and one of their friends got up early and went fly fishing. My cousin and I weren't welcome on the "Man's" fishing trips...

Well we decided that we would go fishing without them. But there were not any lakes or streams in West Denver within our "allowed roaming area", so we rigged up our spinning rods and reels with some lug nuts that we had found in the neighbors driveway and we went to the nearest big parking lot we could find that was within the "allowed roaming area" and began casting. It was Saturday so no cars in the lot of this office building and we began to see who could cast the farthest... Yup a lug nut when through a window of the office building.

What we didn't know was that there was one of Denver's Finest in his patrol car in an alley across the street watching us... He drove over and told us that he had witnessed it and knew it was an accident, but we would have to pay for the window. He had dispatch call the manager of the property and he came down and called the owner of the building and told him what happened. Apparently the guy was a big time fisherman and said that two city boys trying to get better at their casting was OK with him and he didn't want charges and he would have the window fixed.

The cop let us sweat it out for a little while and then said he would let it slide like the building owner wanted as long as we promised to go home and tell our parents. He gave us our rods back and then he left...we decided on the walk home that we were never going to tell our parents. As far as I know he never did and I never have...as a matter of fact this is the first time I have ever spoken of it to anyone but my cousin.

Stupid Stuff I Hid From My Parents would make a good thread of its own.

Before we start that thread, we should check and see if there is enough bandwidth, my stories would fill dozens of pages.

Dad:. Did your friends come over today?
Me:. Yessir
Dad:. Did y'all play in the garage?

At this moment of conversation a red flag goes up in my mind. What did we do today? Did something happen? What exactly does Dad already know?

Me:. Yessir, we were in and out of the garage. Why do you ask?
Dad:. I came home, open the garage door, and could smell a faint natural gas odor. I checked the gas jet, and it wasn't completely closed.
Me:. Hmm.

Earlier in the day my older brother and I, along with some friends, had made homemade weather balloons with plastic bags from the dry cleaners. They flew pretty good, too. I don't remember if we ever came clean or not.

But I’d need my older brother’s permission.
He was the protagonist in most of these adventures.

But as long as I’ve begun . . .

My favorite codger stories would almost certainly involve my brother.

He escorted me through the wilds of the New York subway system when I was too young to negotiate the tunnels on my own so we could use my uncles’ season tickets to watch baseball games my uncles were too busy working to go see.

Playground fights almost always involved arguments over whether Mickey Mantle or Willie Mays was the best center fielder who ever lived. Clearly, it was Mays, and I’ll take on anybody who says different!

I could puff a hundred bowls over stories about my brother, the classical scholar who eventually decided to become a surgeon because it was virtually impossible to make a living with Latin, his great love. I have a photo of him in his NYU doctoral regalia in my office at school. My students think it’s a picture of Henry the VIII.

Every Saturday when we were little, he’d take my hand and escort me on the bus to a double feature, with cartoons in the middle, at the Royal Theater, and our parents would get an afternoon off.

When I think it’s safe, I might “remember” the time my brother almost burned our apartment building down playing with matches in the basement storage area . . .

Stoopball and stickball!
After a broomstick and a “Spaldeen,” a regular wooden Louisville Slugger and a baseball on a diamond almost felt like cheating.

I still have a few wooden bats leaning against the wall in my office. Never owned, or used, an aluminum bat.

. . . be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you. Ephesians 4:32 (NKJV)

The most improper job of any man, even saints, is bossing other men. Not one in a million is fit for it, and least of all those who seek the opportunity.. J.R.R. Tolkien

When I was about 11 or 12, me and a couple of buddies pooled our funds and spent lavishly on a blue pipe called “The Pipe”, some Borkum Riff and the latest Oui magazine. It was my first and worst pipe smoking experience in my life.